It is a quiet Sunday morning on the narrow blocks of the Upper East Side. The sky is just grey enough and the air just cool enough that the PEOPLE wandering from bagel shops and diners don’t have to squint or bristle as they make their way home.

Down one of the winsome side streets is a small brick apartment building with a concrete stoop and a red front door.

Through the red door, past meager security measures, and up the slender winding staircase, is a tiny apartment on the fourth floor.

From beyond the wooden door marked “4B” comes the muffled sound of a phone ringing.

INT. APARTMENT, LIVING ROOM - MORNING

Inside is a very tiny, mostly tidy living room. The only bit of chaos apparent here is a trail of hastily shed clothing.

A pair of mens trousers, a woman’s blouse, a lacy black bra, crumpled tube socks, all lead to a bedroom door slightly ajar.

The ringing grows louder.

INT. TINY APARTMENT, BEDROOM - MORNING

Immediately discernible are a chair with a weeks worth of dirty clothes, a pile of romance novels tucked under the dresser, and a phone buzzing from the bedside table.

In the bed are two lumps. One stirs at the sound of the phone. Moans and groans bellow from beneath the covers as an arm emerges to quiet the noise.

The covers drop, the lump is a girl, RAMONA, slight and pretty wearing last night’s makeup and nothing else.

She speaks into the phone with raspy hangover voice.

RAMONA (groggy) Hello? Oh, Winnie. Hi.

Ramona slumps into the bed on her back. She notices the other lump and GASPS.

RAMONA Oh my God!

She pulls down the covers to reveal the head and torso of a very attractive man.